Namaste, SoCal

Saturday, Sept. 5, 2009

We kicked off our day by meeting a fellow Buckeye while getting the oil changed in our trusty minivan, Richard Hughes. The guy's son had gone to OSU, and he compared the noise of a football game at the Horseshoe to that of a jet engine. O-H! I-O! Then we grabbed some breakfast and drove up to Forest Lawn to visit Jenny's lola and lolo, Amada and Benjamin Basa Sr., who passed in 1988 and 2001, respectively. I have never seen such a magnificent cemetery. Huge rolling hills overlooking Hollywood. Solemn and peaceful, we stood and prayed over the graves.

Back at the Glendale house, Jenny led Tita Josie, Tita Raquel, and myself through some yoga poses. Jenny is like a pretzel; we were more like hot dogs. Then Jenny and Tita Jo showed off their hula hooping skills. Who's envious? This guy. I think my personal record for hula hooping is three spins before the thing clanks to the ground. I went out on a short run through the hills of Glendale, and to all y'all runners looking for a challenge: this is it. Forty five degree angles up and down - my lungs felt like they were going to pop. But it was great to get out there and work on rehabbing my leg.

After we said goodbye to Tita Josie, we packed up the car (now with the addition of a new hula hoop and tons of clothes for Jenny and her fam; thanks so much for everything, Tita Jo) and slid ourselves into LA traffic for the last time. Cars were crawling along the 101, and we agreed that we wouldn't miss LA's crazy seven-lane, thousand-car shuffles. We stopped in Newbury Park to have lunch at a Chinese restaurant with Jenny's Ninong (godfather) Rudy, his wife Norma, and their son David. Black pepper beef and scallops, oh my. Back at Rudy's house, we coaxed David into playing some classical guitar for us. It was absolutely beautiful (have I overused the word 'beautiful' in this blog yet? That's just been the most fitting word for so many things). David agreed to play before our wedding next June, and we couldn’t be more honored to have him.

Then it was on the road again, Willie-Nelson-style, with Richard Hughes nosed towards the Bay Area. I had never been to San Fran, and after hearing many good reviews from many good people, I was excited to check out the city. Our specific destination for tonight was, as usual, a restaurant. The goal was the Absinthe Bar, whose bartenders’ book The Art of the Bar was one of the first bartending books I bought as a young bartender (‘cause I’m so damn old and wise now). I even jacked the recipe for their Ginger Rogers – don’t worry, I asked permission via email – and we sold it as a Ginger Mojito at Casablanca in Harvard Square. Anyway, we had to make it there before the kitchen closed at midnight, so we banged out the six-hour drive in closer to five. As we entered SF around 11, we found that the Bay Bridge was closed until Tuesday and so we had to loop way around to the Golden Gate. The clock was ticking. Twenty minutes and ten dollars in tolls later – the Bay folk make you pay for their beauty – we were cruising over the famed reddish-orange bridge, fog and darkness all around us, doing our best to snap pictures out the side windows as the front one was caked over with dozens of bodies of kamikaze dragonflies from I-5. (Jenny hates the fact that I mentioned this as bugs are probably the only life-forms in the world she is NOT friendly with.) ANYway, we made it into a back corner booth at Absinthe, had some excellent oysters, and one of the best burgers we’ve ever had the good fortune to feast on. The only downside was the very detailed description of, well, how should I say this, behind-closed-door-sports that was broadcast loudly from the man-slash-woman sitting next to us. Hey, that’s San Francisco for ya. Giddy up.

When all was said and done, we tucked ourselves into a cheap motel on Van Ness Ave, prayed that the ceiling fan wouldn’t fall on us, and thanked Tiny Baby Jesus for another great day in the state run by the guy who said “If it bleeds, we can kill it” in one of the best films of all time.